Esurio
by JackSparrowsBooty
Summary: The SVU squad faces one of the worst perps yet—a cannibal strikes their district and threatens to rip apart their lives—one by one.
1. Chapter 1

It was life doing that typical 180 degree turn into the pits again that had Olivia pinned underneath some sadistic, cannibalistic creep, bleeding from her gut, and once again considering the real possibility of being a victim of sexual assault, a _rape victim_, facing certain death.

Death she could handle, because her job required a certain amount of grace under pressure, being a cop—a _female_ cop, no less—guaranteed at least a small amount of danger. This she expected. However, most people rarely experienced life-changing moments that involved severe emotional trauma or possible sexual violation; by now, sadly, she was an old pro.

The man poised over her, Brad Ulrich, wasn't even the archetypal, evil looking predator that people usually expected when imagining a cruel, man-eating killer, which was probably why he'd been able to remain under the radar for so long. He was a good-looking kid with choirboy looks, patchy stubble on his youthful jaw, wide green eyes, even a nice demeanor. The sweet, saccharine smile had now curved his lips upward into something that was cunning yet vacant of emotion. The long, bony fingers of his left hand had a surprising amount of strength in them and had her wrists locked in a solid grasp, while the other yielded a four-inch black Smith and Wesson hunting knife. She could feel the cold, smooth steel slide over her even through the cotton shirt she was wearing.

Olivia heard faint gasps a few feet away, where her partner lay dying, bleeding profusely from two stab wounds to the back. Ulrich had caught them off guard by creating a textbook diversion tactic with the noisy toss of a brick into a nearby spider-webbed window. This had led them into the moth eaten place, on guard, but unassuming as they went the wrong direction. He'd made sure to produce the right kind of clamor in the dark space and then go silent to confuse them—crept up behind Elliot, delivered two quick, devastating blows with the hunting blade, and moved instantly toward her to do the same. He'd taken advantage of her shock and disbelief and jabbed the blood-covered knife into her lower abdomen, grabbing control easily. _Too _easily. They should have been more cautious, more prepared. They were seasoned veterans, so really, none of it should have happened _period. _The only excuse that she could fabricate in a drifting mind is that they had been so enraptured by their own personal demons, they'd basically given him the perfect opportunity to strike.

She remembered the gush of crimson liquid seeping from the fabric of his light dress shirt, and she recalled feeling alarmed at the volume that poured from the wounds—she'd only been given a brief moment to see him attempt to remove the safety of his Glock so that he could retaliate, but he hardly managed to stagger a few steps before his knees buckled. He'd tumbled face-first into the cold cement floor of the abandoned warehouse they'd been staking out for the last three hours. His gun had skittered to the right and away from view.

She was brought back to the present when she heard a small, stifled pop as the man yanked apart the front of her pants, and she had a sudden strange moment where the world became bright, her mind clear. Everything seemed _too real_. Sensations overwhelming.

It was happening. She was lying on the ground, bleeding from a stab wound; Elliot was slipping away very rapidly from the shock of his back injury, and their suspect was tearing off her clothes to use her body for his twisted sexual appetite. It was real. It was really happening. To _them._

But it _couldn't _be real! her mind screamed as she stared in fascinated horror at the soft dip of the kid's neck and clavicle, as she contemplated the very fabric of what made him human, his flesh and blood, knowing that he had a mother somewhere, possibly a spouse, a lover, someone who cared about him. She then let her eyes drift to his face, the cruel, detached grin—like he was conducting a school science experiment. She was the animal waiting for dissection, and he was the demented, over-eager future sociopath pinning her to his tray. She realized with dissociated interest that she was simply a specimen to him. A _thing. _Not an actual person who felt pain or emotion.

She felt a moment of terror fill her when she realized that she was becoming weak. The fear shot through her like a lightning bolt, and she knew that this was her body's natural response to the spike in anxiety. Adrenaline began coursing through her, despite the shock that was settling over her senses.

She was losing blood. Fast.

But she contemplated what would happen if she gave into the growing weakness and could not overpower the sick freak, or if back up didn't miraculously materialize—he would have his way with her, slice her up like he'd done to the Quinn family and Kayla Sanders, drink her blood, wash his hands and face, and disappear into the night. Just like he had done to the others. God only knew if law enforcement would find him after that. He'd probably be in Canada by the time they realized they had two dead detectives in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of urban nowhere. How many other countless victims would he murder and cannibalize if she could not stop him?

Olivia fought the growing feebleness and struggled to free her arms from his left hand. They were clammy with sweat and enabled her to slither from his bone-crushing grip. She swung quickly with as much force as she could rally, aiming for his left cheek. He laughed, easily dodging her strike, then brought his knife back toward her body, the smile swooping into a vicious scowl. Olivia caught the blade before it plunged into the heaving expanse of her chest.

Suddenly she was fighting a new battle—forcing the weapon away with the exposed skin of her palms. She squirmed ferociously and ignored the slick feeling of blood trickling down her forearms as her hands split on contact with the sharp end of the blade.

"Yeah, oh yeah, I love a good fight!" he said in a seductive voice as he pushed his lower body into hers. "Show me how mad you are, honey!"

"I'll kill you, Ulrich!" she spat, barbs of pain erupting from her palms as she pushed with all her might.

He shoved back with more malice, giggling girlishly. "I think you should be more concerned with yourself, sweetie, 'cause when you stop fighting me, it'll be quick. Don't get me wrong, I love a challenge. But you're only drawing it out." He sank down closer to her so he could whisper in her face and she moved away in disgust. "I always get what I want. I'm gonna have my way with _you_, your partner, and I'm gonna make it last, you understand? You'll always be a part of me. You'll always be _inside of me_."

Olivia's body was thrumming with pain at that point, and her heart was beating so frantically that her pulse began pounding in her ears, drowning her senses in the thunderous sound. The ferocity of her efforts was waning—she was not strong enough to withstand the blood loss, damage to her internal organs, the shock, and her body was succumbing on its own despite her fervor.

"No," she growled from clenched teeth, arms trembling violently. "I _won't_ _let you_!" Darkness began seeping into the corners of her vision and the intense zeal to fight back and live turned to blind panic. She couldn't keep the frightened whimper from surfacing, and tears slipped from the corners of her eyes uncontrollably.

_It can't end this way._

It was at this moment that the familiar report of gunfire filled the air of the cement room. As quickly as the attack came, the pressure eased from her wrists just as quickly and the man bonelessly slumped on top of her, spilling his last breath and warm brain matter into the crook of her neck. She turned her face again and noticed that Elliot had been able to find his gun from wherever it had fallen, and had aimed at Ulrich's head. He was alarmingly pale, no color in his lips or face, but he wore a look of satisfaction. And just like that, his eyes rolled back, his hands dropped with a loud clamoring when his service pistol hit the ground, and his cheek landed with it.

Gone.

A loud bang erupted shortly afterward when the door to the room was thrust into the wall and the shouts and footsteps mingled together into a combined garble of noise. Olivia was shuddering painfully, unable to control the trembling. The iron smell of the blood and tissue caused her stomach to churn, and right when she felt as though she would vomit, Brad Ulrich was shoved off her by a well-aimed shoe.

A face swam in front of her, which resembled John Munch—face gray and slack with shock. "Olivia," he muttered, instantly yanking off his coat to press it into the wound in her side. "Olivia? Stay with me," he said, and turned away to place a frantic radio call for the nearest available EMS. "Central, 10-13! I repeat, 10-13 at this location! We need a bus _forthwith_, you _hear me?_"

Olivia looked to Elliot again and noticed Cragen and Fin had emerged and were kneeling before his sprawled body. They removed the weapon from his limp fingers and quickly pushed fabric into his wounds to suppress the bleeding. She watched their movements, worry sparking inside of her despite her rapidly declining condition. She was beginning to feel the heavy pull of overwhelming exhaustion. "El—"

Munch touched her cheek, rubbing his thumb over it soothingly. "Liv, don't worry. Paramedics are on the way. They'll take care of him, I promise. We're not going to lose you, all right?" He moved out of sight, but kept talking to her. "You have got to stay awake, you got me? Don't even close your eyes."

She nodded, but the darkness from before returned with more force, and her body seemed to relax into the cold ground, sink into the strange comfort and accept it. The cement floor suddenly felt good. The pain began to dissipate. She knew she had to fight it, knew that this was bad, but she could no longer concentrate on why this was so.

Her eyes slid closed as all the sights and sounds of the world drifted away.

_ Two weeks earlier_

Elliot was supposed to be typing out his DD5s to finish his official reports of one of five active abuse cases on his desk, but he was distracted by the entrance of his partner as she trudged into the open squad room, forgoing the trip to the locker room and immediately shrugging off her wool jacket with a roll of her eyes. She stopped at her chair, sighing as she dropped her handbag onto the floor and flung her jacket over the back of her seat, then met his curious gaze across their adjoined desks.

"Bad news, I take it," he mumbled from his reclined position, then moved his crisscrossed feet from the untouched stacks of manila folders and leaned his elbows against the small table.

Olivia sat untidily, draping her hands over the armrests of her chair. "Acquittal."

What once would be an explosive bout of anger at the injustice of a clearly guilty perp sliding through the conveniently placed cracks of the justice system, remained as a grimly-accepting sigh. "What happened?"

"Defense ripped him apart. Langen grilled him like a pit bull, destroying any credibility in front of the jury even though the judge struck his comments from record. You know how that goes, once it's said it can't be _un_said. But supposedly there wasn't enough solid evidence to convict."

"That's such crap. How long did the jury take to deliberate?"

"Less than thirty minutes." Olivia slid her chair closer to her side of the desk, a mirthless smile raising her lips.

Elliot made a grumbling noise in the back of his throat, and then palmed his forehead. "Six months of investigation down the drain in five minutes. Nice."

She stared at the ceiling, feeling the same measure of irritation and defeat. "The evidence was circumstantial, El. It was never concrete. And eyewitness testimony can easily be overturned when enough doubt is raised, you know that."

"Daniels is gonna walk because our only credible witness made the mistake of seeing him at night. Just watch, Liv. In a week, we'll have a new case on our desk with the same MO, except this time the woman he rapes will be dead."

Olivia shook her head, and then pushed the anger from her thoughts. They had to take the losses with the wins. This was something every city employee had to stomach with a gloomy acceptance. Not one person on their crew would be able to operate on the job if they got caught up in the injustices of the way the law worked. It was necessary to remove herself emotionally from her cases in order to function the rest of the day—otherwise she would go insane with rage. She used to hold onto it all, bring cases home, let the victims and perps live in her mind well after she'd punched the clock, but she'd been working in the unit long enough to adjust. The first few years were the hardest, with some of the longest nights of disturbed sleep filled with fear, wrath, and sadness. It got easier over time.

"I'll give Erica a call later to see how she's doing," she said quietly, training her eyes to her computer and compelling herself to concentrate on something else. Elliot took the cue and diligently returned to the forms in front of him until the door to the room was thumped open and Fin's stocky form strolled in with haste. This always meant something significant had taken place—both detectives hoped for something good.

"What's up?" Elliot asked as Fin and Munch stopped at their desks a few feet away.

Fin answered as he pulled on his coat and yanked a dark beanie over his head. "We got a pretty nasty one over in the Tribeca area. We're gonna need all the help we can get, so you and Liv should come along. CSU and the ME are on their way already."

Olivia groaned. She'd only had minutes before needing to get up once again.

It never ended.

Elliot had been cooped up for a few hours, so he was eager to join the two other men, donning his suit jacket. "Pretty nasty, huh? You mean worse than we deal with already?"

Munch shrugged his thin shoulders. "9-1-1 operator took a call from a man about an hour ago, saying it looks like someone painted his girlfriend's apartment in her blood. Responding officers said it's gruesome, and that there's evidence of sexual penetration before and after her death, so that's why they called us."

Olivia sidled up behind Elliot, raising her dramatic eyebrows. "A real Romeo."

"It gets worse," Munch responded gravely.

She followed the group out of the room, shaking her head. "There's more? What now?"

Fin pressed his lips together, almost appearing to be sick. "She was pregnant."

Olivia immediately glanced at Elliot after hearing of the victim's condition, and she noticed the tendons in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth together. When cases involved children, even _in utero_, he had a tendency to let his emotions cloud better judgment. She could feel her intuition foist its way into her senses—this case would be emotionally trying, and like previous investigations involving children or mothers, he would respond with flailing, barely controlled emotions.

His head turned, and he met her gaze as if he'd read her mind and discerned her unease. "I'll be fine."

She almost chuckled at his retort, and thought it was endlessly amusing that they could read each other so well, but it was something to be expected after over a decade of partnership. "Cragen know where we're going?"

Fin answered. "He's waiting for us by now. Let's go."


	2. Chapter 2

AN: For those of you who may be familiar with this story already, yes, it was posted on SVUFic before the site lapsed and closed down. I was never truly satisfied with the way it sounded, so it spent a lot of time sitting on my computer waiting for editing. The same can be said for 'Pox' which generated a lot of attention previously, but I hated the way some of it seemed. So forgive me for that! It can still be found on AO3 (I couldn't delete it for some reason).

Anyway, on with the show!

* * *

><p>It was a rocking motion that woke her—that and a shrill, blaring alarm sounding off next to her ear. For a moment, she allowed the noise to continue its incessant shrieking without offering it much thought, because she was overwhelmingly exhausted. However, she could not stop herself from being reeled back into semi-consciousness—that curious moment she often felt right before she opened her eyes to welcome the world.<p>

Olivia lay flat for a while without putting too much thought to her condition, such as why she was sleeping, and that she couldn't even recall laying down in her bed—not to mention how heavy and lifeless she felt until she suddenly realized with a jolt of clarity that the last thing she remembered was staring into Munch's face from the cold, cement floor of that contemptible, decrepit building.

She opened her eyes then and recognized the tight quarters of an ambulance before her, as well as the hovering EMT in his standard black FDNY uniform baring the paramedic insignia that set him apart from the firefighters who shared the same unit.

Olivia felt that odd sense of unreality move over her as she stared at the ceiling of the vehicle, and the cabin swayed with the stop-and-go of the in-town traffic. The world around her seemed blurred and less focused, and she could feel the effects of nausea rise up from the pit of her stomach, stronger in its force than before when Ulrich had been slumped on top of her and that disgusting combination of iron smell and the sweat of the dead man coalesced into one repulsive odor right underneath her nose. The churning grew with a force that denied any attempts at ignoring it.

She noticed that the shrieking alarm's volume was lowered—its origin was emitting from a heart monitor, and a quick, sidelong glance in its direction gave her the indication that she wasn't doing so great, but being she was no medical expert, she could not interpret the measurements and numbers before her.

"How far are we?" the young EMT shouted to the driver, who remained out of view. The kid turned and he removed his stethoscope, pressing the end to her exposed abdomen, close enough to the wound—_stab wound—_ that a fierce throb spread across her middle like a rolling burn. As she grimaced in response to the spark of pain, he listened intently and his partner answered.

"ETA two minutes!" a deep voice rumbled back. Olivia moved to touch the wound in her side, anxiety flooding into her mind when she noticed that her arms and legs were weighty and cold, and her abdomen felt unusually swollen. She took a tentative breath in and whimpered quietly at the flash of pain it caused when her stomach expanded. It felt as if each breath stretched the skin surrounding the wound and everything felt distended, pulled tight.

"How's she doing, Jim?"

The medic pressed the stethoscope to the flesh of Olivia's stomach, and she could see his face melt into frustration. "Absent bowel sounds on the left. I think the knife may have perforated the peritoneal cavity. I'll radio the ER to tell them to prepare her for an emergency laparotomy." She tried to let the horrifying words sink in. A knife wound and surgery? What else could possibly go wrong? "BP is low at 90/50, and she's tachy at 120, even with IV fluids." Olivia's vision swam as the blood loss began to muddle her brain. Strangely, she was not thinking about how frighteningly close she was to dying. Instead, her mind went to Elliot. Visions of her partner's body bleeding and stumbling, then eyes rolling back terrified her more than anything she was facing herself. Elliot was in trouble. The idea of him dying was a far more fearsome thought.

She had little time to mull over their misfortune, as the vehicle pulled into the ambulance bay and a team of doctors thrust open the back door, readily yanking the stretcher out and surrounding her like a swarm of bees. Olivia stared up at them blearily, as if she were viewing these people as they rushed alongside her from a TV screen. The faces blended into an assemblage of bright lights, mint hospital green, and unyielding concern and she turned her cheek away from the sight. It was too overwhelming and her brain was already mush as a result of lack of oxygen and hypovolemia, she was sure. As she trained her eyes toward the right, she wondered if she would ever be able to know if her partner would make it. She'd never get the image of the immediate stream of blood pouring from his back and the lifeless slump of his body as it hit the ground from her dreams. That is, of course, if she lived to ever have any more nights of disturbed sleep.

She recalled the way he looked earlier that very morning. She'd walked into the squad room from a restless three hour nap in the crib to see him standing over his side of their attached desk. He was clad in dark gray slacks and a pinstriped button-down shirt. This was his back-up outfit—she knew this because she'd seen him stuff it in there about six months ago when they'd dealt with yet another overnight stay in the crib, during a case demanding full attention and overriding the attempt at fleeing for home and a far more comfortable bed—the shirt in question, although clean, was slightly wrinkled.

She noticed that his back was taut as an overstretched rubber band, his head bent in concentration. She knew innately to leave him alone, because, despite his experience on the job and the countless atrocities he'd witnessed, assuming the position as lead detective over the case had been difficult for him, especially after the Quinns' murder. He blamed himself for the devastating turn of events—of course, he naturally felt that he had not done enough on his part to avoid the lurid slaughtering of the family. She understood the frustration of being so _close_, practically _feeling _the suspect's presence, calculating his next move, just needing that one piece of evidence or lead that would break the case wide open. Only to have that one piece never reveal itself until something horrible happened, like the Quinn family murder.

She remembered strolling over to him, fully expecting his tight, signature glare, but had been surprised by the emotion he relayed instead. His blue eyes were bright, ardently conveying sincere anguish, and she realized as she had glanced down at his hands, he was holding the murder victim's files, clutching them, white-knuckled.

All of a sudden, her chest tightened in sudden, horrifying grief and she couldn't breathe. The terror she felt was abrupt and uncontrollable.

Let him live. Let me live. _Please_.

The stretcher was raced into a trauma room, a sickeningly sterile area with whitewash walls. Harsh lights shone down on her form and distorted voices shouted out demands and other confusing data. Her clothes were cut from her body and flung away, her shoes removed and thrown into the heap of ruined fabric off to the side. She tried to choke out a plea from underneath the oxygen mask over her mouth and nose, but she was interrupted by the disturbing scene in the next room.

Elliot.

Doctors swarmed around her partner, splattered in crimson. They were moving at a frantic pace—clearly making a zealous attempt at stabilizing his condition before moving him off to surgery, which at the present time looked rather bleak. She watched as the figures in scrubs and yellow-colored protective covers measured his vitals, loaded IV and blood bags onto the metal poles next to him, and desperately peered into his eyes with a penlight.

Something in her periphery registered the obvious company of someone perched over her, and her gaze shifted to the left where a nurse was peering down into her face. "Detective Benson, my name is Leah, and I'm one of the nurses that will be preparing you for surgery, okay? Can you understand me?"

Olivia took a shaky breath in experimentally, remembering the burning from before and she expected the action to cause the familiar siege of pain to roll over her middle as before. Amazingly, the awful sensation had begun to ease, but she presumed that this was likely a result of the medication pumped into her veins to relax her before her operation. A complimentary push of comfort so that she didn't contemplate possibly slipping quietly into the perpetual night and have a moment of panic. A calm patient was easier to deal with. Pain aside, she began sucking in air greedily and everything seemed less muddled, more tranquil.

A man's voice to the right of her sounded. "All right, Detective, tests indicate that your small bowel may have been perforated by the stab wound. You'll need surgery in order to repair the defect, okay? Laparotomies are very safe procedures, and your chance of survival is virtually one hundred percent, as long as we get the show on the road now."

She nodded, confused, but accepting. "Okay," she whispered, then raised her hand. "Wait," she said with quiet determination. "My-my partner, Elliot. Is he—"

Leah the nurse smiled stiffly, the action not quite meeting her eyes. "He'll need surgery as well. There's some blood loss, but he's responding positively to IV resuscitation. He's already been moved upstairs."

Olivia looked over to where Elliot had been and noticed his stretcher was gone from the next room, and in the wake of his transfer to the elevator were the scattered remains of bloody fabric, gauze, tape, tubes, and the shed drapes and gloves of her partner's medical team. She felt the rush of uneasy tears try to surface, but she pushed them back stubbornly. "Please don't let him die," she choked out from a tangled throat.

"We're going to do our best," the doctor muttered. "All right, she's stable. Let's move her."

_Two weeks earlier_

There was no mistaking the scene before them when Olivia and Elliot's department issued sedan pulled up to the apartment building. They were definitely in the right location—the red flashing lights of squad cars lit up the increasingly darkening skies, and scores of curious bystanders surrounded the caution tape that had been set up to establish a perimeter and to keep the rubberneckers out of the way. It was always disturbing for Olivia to see how fascinated people were by gore, and that they would sometimes go out of their way to catch even the slightest glimpse of a dead body.

Still, it was always important to survey the crowd, as there were times when the sick freak would stand amongst the gathering of people to observe the efforts of law enforcement and relish in the thrill of the crime and the community response. This is where the perp got his or her true gratification—witnessing for him or herself the horror in the expressions of the bystanders, the first responders. Olivia let her eyes rove around the faces to see if her police intuition screamed at her in any way. But the crowd was simply too large for her to notice anything right off, so she slogged up to the yellow tape and ducked underneath it, following the three other detectives into the building.

The rusty smell of blood hit her senses before they even approached the victim's apartment. Pushing past the officials milling about and blinking from the camera flashes of scrutinizing forensic technicians and over the threshold into the space inside, Olivia recognized her captain standing in the middle of the room, speaking in low tones to the resident medical examiner, Melinda Warner.

"Hey, Captain, Warner," Elliot greeted, grimacing as he snapped on rubber gloves. Cragen and Melinda nodded at them, their normally passive faces slightly washed-out. "What have we got?"

Don Cragen sighed, then motioned at the group to follow him toward the bedroom. "Our vic's name is Kayla Sanders—twenty-three, approximately six months pregnant. Boyfriend found her after getting off of work and called it in. She was pronounced DOA around 4:30 in the afternoon from multiple stab wounds."

They stopped at the doorway to the young woman's bedroom, and Olivia's breath caught in her chest. The small area was filled with the overwhelming smell of iron now, enough to nauseate even the most seasoned professional. "Geez, there's blood everywhere," she said, eyes wandering around the walls, carpet, and bed, then fixing on the motionless woman's form on the ground, covered lightly by a blue sheet. "Looks like someone took a bath in it."

"A little bit of an understatement, would you say?" Munch wondered, stepping over a pair of shoes to examine the woman's dresser.

Elliot kneeled before the body, lifting the sheet and winced for a moment. "The perp was angry about something." He let the sheet fall from his grasp as Melinda regarded him in sympathy. "He mutilated her," he muttered, his shocked expression descending into revulsion.

"Her midsection was sliced open, and it appears as though some of her organs were removed," the medical examiner said in a stoic tone. She bent to sit on her haunches and lifted the sheet once again, and pointed at what was left of the woman's abdomen while the rest of the group leaned in. "The cuts are jagged and sloppy—definitely someone in a hurry who has no professional training or practice."

Fin met her steely gaze. "And the baby?"

Melinda knelt down, prodding Kayla Sanders' middle carefully. "Still there."

Olivia's thoughts went to the boyfriend. "This looks pretty personal. You think someone was upset about her being pregnant? Maybe the boyfriend couldn't handle being a parent and decided to kill her, set it up like he stumbled upon her body, then put on a show for the police when they arrived."

Cragen shook his head. "The boyfriend, Kyle Cornwall, has a pretty airtight alibi. His boss confirmed that he was behind his desk from 7:00 in the morning until about 4:00."

"Well, he lives within a reasonable walking distance from his home, so he could have easily just came home from his lunch break and returned to work as if nothing happened."

Fin checked his watch. "What's the approximate time of death?"

Melinda responded in her passive manner, the usual dissociated routine of an ME unaffected by the horrors of carnage. "The body hasn't developed full rigor yet. Judging by the state the body is in, I'd estimate she's been dead for about five hours."

"Okay, that means she was killed between 12:00 and 1:00 p.m.," Elliot added, then stood to his fullest height to study the blood splatter on Kayla Sanders' wall. "That's a typical lunch hour. What was lover boy doing at that time? Do we know?"

"Mr. Cornwall's already agreed to answer questions down at the stationhouse." Cragen picked up a picture frame, narrowing his eyes at the photo. The couple appeared genuinely happy. "From what I understand, he spent his lunch with a friend from his office, and was practically inconsolable when the responding patrols arrived."

Melinda pointed at an area around the woman's rib cage. "I also noticed something a little unusual," she said, tracing a pattern with her gloved finger. "See this?"

Olivia frowned at the mangled flesh, forcing herself to remain professional despite her immediate reaction to the gruesome sight was horrified aversion. "Teeth marks."

Munch screwed his face up in disgust. "Her killer bit her where he stabbed her and cut out her organs?"

The ME nodded. "Looks like her killer did it post-mortem."


	3. Chapter 3

Don stared at the white walls of the downtown New York hospital, thinking that the place had that disturbing, eerie ambience that they always seemed to have, although he was sure having two of his people in surgery with grave injuries and feeling the heat from the media liaison and police commissioner regarding his response to how the events unfolded contributed to these feelings of uneasiness. As his gaze swept the discolored ceiling tiles and down the scenic still-shots framed on the walls, he decided he'd put in enough time in hospital waiting rooms to know that he definitely hated being in places like these.

Waiting rooms always unnerved him. It wasn't just the unsettling quiet, the stacks of wrinkled, water-stained magazines, or the faux wooden chairs with the faux leather cushions. Not even the persistent sanitary disinfectant smell that seemed to cling to every fiber in the carpet and panels of the ceiling. It was the wait.

Waiting to hear news that could mean a life preserved or a future of mourning and darkness. There was nothing more depressing than slipping into that decorated, black uniform in the back of his closet—the funeral and procession that followed given an officer in the event of his or her unexpected death—one last act of integrity and formality by the showing of utmost respect and dressing up in almost militaristic fashion and burying him or her with full honor.

Don knew how devastating the loss of a fellow officer was to squads. The unit was more than just a typical work family. It was like a sub-community. A tight-knit unit that consisted of police wives befriending other police wives as a result of the unique connection they shared, children included. An officer death was much like slicing off a limb. Cutting a piece of the heart out, and subsequently attempting to patch an incessantly bleeding wound. The rest of the body would attempt to heal, but the process would be time consuming and the effect of such an experience would leave permanent scars.

Don moved, feeling the trepidation of his deep brooding and let his legs stretch out in front of him, then slouched untidily in his chair. The surgical waiting room was slightly different from the bottom floor version—it was smaller, much quieter, and less colorful. About a dozen bodies meandered about the space, most of them other investigators or patrol officers from the 1-6, anxious to know about Elliot and Olivia's conditions. When word had gotten out that the detectives had suffered potentially critical wounds, everything and everyone dropped and the whole floor had erupted into an anxious thrum of activity, and they were all nervously waiting for word before they let themselves breathe a sigh of relief or despair.

Don was almost glad that Brad Ulrich had been dead on arrival. God only knew that he'd have never made it to his day in court if the two detectives were not able to pull through. He knew that it was wrong to consider sidestepping the law and letting vengeance take over any kind of rational thought; even being law enforcers, it was difficult separating between what was _right _and what was _fair _when two of their very own colleagues were attacked. Even as a seasoned captain, he found himself at times skeptical of the reliability of the justice system, especially when seedy criminals somehow slithered through the cracks and loopholes. It was easy to let revenge cloud judgment when the prick could have gotten away due to some sleaze-ball move by Ulrich's attorney to discredit police procedure, or some kind of unfortunate technicality.

His eyes lifted away from a well-thumbed and probably months-old issue of Newsweek to glance at the wall clock, and the display indicated that his detectives had been in surgery for almost an hour by then. One of the nurses who had attended Olivia in the trauma room had been gracious enough to check in on the two just to filter some news out to the anxious group, but unfortunately she was only able to say that it was too early into the operations to give any kind of concrete information and she would check back at another time to see if progress was being made.

That had been a mind-numbing 45 minutes ago.

An elbow nudging him in the rib and Fin's nod at the elevator alerted the captain of a small trio joining the group of milling officers and just the sight of them made him uneasy. He hated this enough when having to sit down with families of victims. He'd almost forgotten about his hasty phone call to Kathy Stabler what seemed a decade ago, but the familiar sensation of a sinking gut enveloped him at her slow walk and facial expression.

She looked haggard, frail, and long-suffering. A woman who had seen her husband there one too many times. Trailing in behind her were two teenage kids, one that Don recognized instantly as Elliot's son Dickie, and a thin blond girl that he hadn't had the pleasure in seeing for quite some time. It had to be Elizabeth.

Don couldn't help but let a tiny grin slip onto his face at the striking resemblance the twins had to their father, especially Dickie, and the girl, who had been much younger the last time he'd seen her, was rather tall and willowy with a familiar piercing blue stare. The grin disappeared as quickly as it had surfaced, as he realized the inappropriateness of its presence and the gloom of their situation.

"Kathy," he said in a quiet tone.

She nodded her response, tears springing loose. "Captain Cragen."

"Have you talked to anyone yet?" He got up and moved closer to the woman, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"No," she answered, shaking her head. "Is he still in surgery?"

"Yeah, last we heard. A nurse checked in on him, but it was too early to tell us anything." He watched Kathy cross her arms, sighing tensely. "You want to sit?"

"Uh, sure, thanks."

Dickie's discerning gaze swept over the captain's face. "Did you see my dad before he went into the operating room?"

Munch came up from behind, returning to the scene with an armful of sodas and bags of chips. "Hi Kathy," he said in a tone he reserved for people who had endured horrible tragedies. "Dickie, Elizabeth. Any of you hungry or thirsty?"

A solemn shaking of heads followed.

Munch set the items down calmly. "Just let me know if you need anything, all right?"

"Thanks, John," Don said, and then turned back to Dickie, who was waiting patiently next to his sister. "Yes, Dickie, I was one of the first responders after the attack. I tended to him until the paramedics came and took over. Unfortunately, he was unresponsive at that point."

"And Olivia?" Elizabeth queried around a mouthful of braces. "Is she okay?"

"We're really not sure about either of them," he responded. "I know it's frustrating, but I'm being vague on purpose. I just don't want to say something and give you the wrong kind of information."

Dickie frowned at the captain, face sinking into a mask of barely controlled anxiety. "Was he bleeding a lot?"

Elizabeth grimaced at that. "Dickie…"

The boy shot her a look like a blow, then turned back to the older man. "Is my dad going to die?"

Don studied him for a heartbeat before clapping a weathered palm onto his shoulder. "The doctors are doing everything they can."

Kathy sniffed loudly, and then dug around in her pocket and revealed a cell phone. "I need to call your sister to see how Eli is doing." She stood, face red. "I'll be right back, guys." She began to walk briskly toward the direction Munch had returned from, but the swish of the swinging OR doors stopped her.

It was the nurse.

_Two Weeks Earlier_

The Crime Scene Unit had meticulously processed the apartment, and just with the basic SOP of forensic collection, this took enough time, but the enormity of evidence needing collection (as it was impossible for them to distinguish whose blood coated the carpet, furnishings, and walls without proper equipment in a controlled lab) guaranteed a certain amount of lag time.

Feeling the internal clock ticking before the media and the general public began breathing down their necks to find the killer, Elliot and Olivia were still inside Kayla Sanders' bedroom a tedious hour later, long after her body had been transported from the scene to the morgue for further analysis. Fin and Munch had escorted Kyle Cornwall, the young man in a crumpled suit, loosened tie, and the appearance of sheer anguish to the 1-6 for questioning with promises of giving the two detectives a call when the session was finished, but neither of their phones had made any noise.

Cragen had taken himself outdoors to interview the curious people surrounding the building individually with the help of the other patrol officers, which left the two detectives alone in the room.

"You sure you want to lead this case, El?" Olivia asked after the two had shared a considerable moment of grim silence. She had busied herself with examining the bloody footprints next to the bed, jotting down information in a small flipbook, and finally felt enough concern bubble up inside of her to say something to him.

Refusing to acknowledge her worry, he only nodded neutrally, rifling through the victim's wallet. "What else would I be doing?" he asked, brusque in delivery.

Before she had a chance to scoff at his gruff approach, he added, "Hey, did we find out her place of employment?"

She watched him for a second longer hoping that Pandora's Box would be opened and suddenly she would understand why exactly he was so dense sometimes, but instead answered just as coolly. "Some vegan bakery around the corner."

"How about her family?"

Feeling a tension headache beginning to creep up behind her eyes, Olivia stood, snapping off her gloves. They were making her hands sweat. "They haven't been informed yet, but I told the captain that we would talk to them once we finished up. They live over in Yonkers. Want me to get the address?"

"Yeah. As soon as we get a call from Fin and Munch."

A hard rapping at the doorjamb alerted the two of Cragen's presence. "You almost done here?"

Elliot dropped Kayla Sanders' wallet into a plastic evidence bag and sealed it. "Yep. Did the neighbors have any useful information?"

"Not really. However, I did have someone who lives across the hall tell me that she saw a strange man wandering around about an hour before the estimated time of death. She says she thought he was a technician of some kind or one of Ms. Sanders' co-workers, but she didn't recognize him. The neighbor is going to come with me to the stationhouse to give the sketch artist a description and a witness statement."

Olivia and Elliot collectively sighed in relief. Their first actual lead. "Thank God," she mumbled, and tossed her gloves into a biohazard bag. "Did they say anything about Kyle and Kayla's relationship?"

"Yeah," Don said, shrugging. "There wasn't anything notable. They kept mostly to themselves, didn't really bother anyone. They were hardly ever seen or heard. Mrs. Morgan across the way seemed to know a little more than others, but she said they seemed like they got along okay. Apparently, they were both pretty excited about the baby, and didn't appear to be that apprehensive about it. The couple was planning on moving to a bigger apartment upstairs so they could accommodate."

Elliot rubbed his chin, thinking of the blood-splattered bags of recently purchased baby items resting against the wall of the front room. "Well, it wouldn't be the first time a husband or boyfriend seemed content, only to snap virtually out of nowhere."

Olivia considered his observation, immediately thinking of the Scott Petersen trial that the nation had been completely obsessed with, years back. "We should dig around his last 48 hours, see if he has any kind of secrets he's not telling us." She studied her partner for a reaction, but got none. "What do you want to do, El? You want to talk to the parents or interview the bakery employees?"

"No, let's go to her parents. They need to know what's going on."

A muted buzzing noise erupted inside Olivia's jeans pocket, and she then narrowed her eyes at the small screen. "It's Fin." She pushed the 'talk' button and pressed it to her ear. "Yeah," she said.

"Hey, Liv," the other detective said in his usual rough voice. "We just sent Kyle Cornwall on his way."

"How'd he do?" she asked, shaking her head at the two men in the room.

"He was pretty broken up about all this. Seems pretty genuine. The way he was acting didn't jive with someone who just brutally murdered his pregnant girlfriend."

Olivia chewed on her bottom lip. "Well, you may be right about that. But lucky us—one of the neighbors told the captain that she saw a stranger walking around the hallway shortly before the murder took place. She'll be catching a ride with him to the precinct to give her statement. Elliot and I are going to Mr. and Mrs. Sanders out in Yonkers, but call us if anything turns up."

"'kay. Good luck."

The car ride to the Sanders' home was relatively silent, save for the sound of vehicles passing and the splashes of rain being kicked up in their wake. This was the part she hated the most. Having to look into a person's eyes, see their looks of worry and suspicion, and watch as it melted into complete despair when told that their loved one was deceased. Homicides, particularly involving sex crimes, made the terror in the family's faces that much more haunting and deplorable. In this case, it'd be especially difficult since the girl had been carrying their first and only grandchild.

The house was quaint and looked well kept, warm yellow lights brightening the windows, with potted plants lining the railing of the family's porch. Elliot pulled the car up next to the sidewalk, and then turned off the engine. He sighed, rubbed his jaw in trepidation, and let his hands drop to his lap. "Let's go."

Elliot knocked on the Sanders' door, and the detectives sniffed hungrily at the indistinct smell of dinner in the air. It had been a while since they'd last eaten any sort of home-cooked _anything_, and scarfing down a heart attack on a plate at a diner or grabbing a granola bar out of a vending machine did very little to satisfy that kind of hunger.

A little while passed until someone answered, but at last the door swung open to reveal a pleasant looking woman in her mid-forties with just a touch of gray at her temples.

"Mrs. Sanders?" he asked, and inwardly cringed when she placed a hand against her mouth. She knew something was wrong after she glanced at the badges hanging around their necks.

"Can I help you?"

"My name is Detective Stabler, and this is my partner Detective Benson." They shook her hand gently. "May we come in?"

The woman paused a moment, then moved to allow them access to the home. "Yes," she said, voice shaking slightly.

"Is your husband home?" Olivia prodded in a soft voice.

She turned in the direction of the room off to the left, sounding a bit more frantic. "Greg!"

The detectives waited for the woman's husband to enter before continuing on with the devastating news. Greg Sanders came bounding in, wearing a matching look of alarm. "What's wrong, Laura?" He noticed the two and stopped next to his wife. "Who are you?"

"Detectives Stabler and Benson. We're from the Manhattan Special Victims Unit."

"Oh, my God. What happened?" Greg asked breathlessly.

Elliot was the one to respond. Olivia hung back, allowing him to speak the horrid truth to existence, the news that would destroy their seemingly happy life. "I apologize for having to tell you this, Mr. and Mrs. Sanders. This afternoon, we were called to an apartment to respond to a crime scene, where we found a woman, deceased. We were able to identify her as your daughter, Kayla. I'm so sorry."


	4. Chapter 4

The nurse, a petite woman with a tight pony tail of copper red hair, smiled in a pained, stiff way that made Don think of things like toothaches or the face one makes when something smells unpleasant. She approached the group with practiced ease, and stood before the small wooden table that held the stacks of old and well-used reading material, gripping her stethoscope on either ends.

"Hello, everyone, Captain," she said, her voice soft and controlled. "I'm sorry if I kept you waiting long. The surgeons have been working continuously on the detectives, but I have some good news for you all."

Kathy had paused in step and now swiveled, her slate-blue eyes impossibly larger than usual. "Good news? How is my husband?" she asked breathlessly.

"You're Detective Stabler's wife?" the nurse queried, gaze fixed on the thin blond woman who had her arms wrapped firmly around herself, almost sinking entirely into her own embrace. "We'll take you back in about an hour or so, Mrs. Stabler, when he is settled in recovery, okay? The procedure can take up to three hours, depending largely on the amount of blood loss and additional internal injuries."

She continued after sitting in one of the chairs next to Fin. "All right, I'll start with your husband then. There were two stab wounds—one to the central midline and the other in his lower back—the midline laceration came just a few centimeters from his spinal cord and caused swelling, but the surgeons are confident that there will be no lasting damage to the nerves in his spine. This is something they will continue to monitor closely. The other wound caused significant blood loss that resulted in irreversible damage to his left kidney. The surgeons tried to salvage the organ, but unfortunately were forced to remove it." The nurse grimaced as Kathy's complexion whitened. "I'm sorry."

"Mom," Dickie murmured, and moved quickly by grabbing his mother's elbow and attempting to guide her to a seat, but she stopped him in protest.

"Wait," she said, placing a hand on her son's shoulder. "When will he be in the recovery room? I'd really like to be with him."

The nurse responded swiftly, unruffled by Kathy's insistence. "He's still in the OR, but I'll make sure you are informed the minute he is moved."

Munch crossed his arms, nodding in the nurse's direction. "And what about Olivia?"

"She's also still in the OR. She had extensive wounds to her palms that will likely need to be repaired by a specialist. We've contacted one of the best reconstructive surgeons we can find, but it's Sunday evening, so we're just waiting for him to come in from his weekend home on Long Island. The other stab wound was much more serious, as it perforated her small intestine. Doctors had to remove a section of it during the surgery and are now working on a colostomy, which is a lengthy process. She'll likely be another few hours." The nurse glimpsed around at the shocked faces, seeming to search for the presence of another body. Their heads turned both ways to find what exactly she was looking for. "I don't recall speaking with a next of kin for Detective Benson. Do any of you have a way to get in touch with whoever this may be?"

Cragen, Fin, and Munch all wore the same aggrieved expressions. "I'm not sure if she has one, actually," the captain stated, countenance pallid.

"Didn't she have a brother?" Munch asked.

Fin answered with a quick nod. "Yeah, but as far as I know they never talk. Actually, I think her next of kin is Elliot."

"Oh," she said, frowning in sympathy. "If it is possible, her brother should be contacted so he is knows about her wellbeing. In the meantime, I'm sure she'll be well supported by any one of her other colleagues. I've got to return to the ER, but a surgeon will come and let you know as soon as she is placed in recovery."

"Thank you for your efforts, ma'am," Fin muttered next to her.

"No problem." She stood and smiled in compassion at the shuffling bodies, then crossed the room and turned a corner, disappearing back to her duties.

After a moment of pause, Cragen moved to his feet and fumbled around in his front pocket, revealing his small leather wallet. "I think I could use something to drink. Kathy, you were heading in that direction. I'll walk with you."

She nodded, allowing him to guide her toward the elevators down the hallway to the left. "I can't believe this," she whispered once they stopped in front of the steel doors, closing her eyes and letting tears escape. He simply thumbed the down button of the elevator and tipped back on his heels. "He's had so many close calls but always came out of it just fine. I cannot believe he's lost a kidney."

Don's own kidneys clenched. "He's been through a lot, but he always manages to bounce back well. Elliot is an amazingly resilient guy, despite the fact that he finds himself in that kind of trouble way too often."

His sad attempt at humor failed to work as he expected when Kathy turned to him, frustration surfacing. "How is he going to get back to his old self with only one kidney? How do we know if he'll even be able to walk? You heard the nurse—they want to continue monitoring him so they know the stab wound didn't damage his spine." She swiped her face with one of her hands, then clutched her elbows. "I feel like this isn't even real, like I'm walking around in a nightmare waiting to finally wake up."

He anxiously hoped that the doors would open as the woman speared her gaze into the side of his face. "You're in shock. It's normal to feel that way, but it will wear off soon."

"I know that," she snapped. "We've been through this only about a hundred times since he joined the force. I swear, this job of his will kill me by the stress alone. I have more gray hair and worry lines than any of my girlfriends from high school." She countered, looking immediately regretful. "I'm sorry, Don. I don't mean to seem irritable."

He shrugged just as the elevator _dinged _and the two boarded. "It's okay. I understand how frustrating it is to be with a cop. A lot of divorces have been generated over that very issue—nearly every retiree I've ever known has faced family discord. It's an unfortunate side effect."

Kathy stood motionless for a moment, watching the digital numbers above them as they descended to the floor that the cafeteria was on. "I think that this is it, though. Once he's done recovering, I'm going to insist that he retire."

Don wanted to laugh at the simple notion of his subordinate taking that road. Elliot _give up_ on something? He didn't know when to quit, even when it meant reprimand. The man would rather lose a limb than throw in the towel. He always figured the detective for someone who either aged out when milky cataracts and crippling arthritis forced him out, or one of the top cops who died in the line of duty. So far he'd nearly been proven right. "I suppose we will see."

"I know he loves his career—hell, he probably loves it more than he has ever loved me—but it has almost killed him on more occasions than I really care to consider."

"He puts himself in the line of fire because it's all part of the risk of police work. Unless he sits behind a desk for the rest of his days on the force, this is something you will always have to deal with." They exited the elevator and Kathy gritted her teeth, looking indignant. "Every spouse has the same kinds of fears and you have managed to handle them honorably."

"Well, I don't know if I want to deal with this anymore. I can't take the constant anxiety. I—I don't if I have it in me anymore. If he doesn't quit this time, then I'm going to have to leave him." He stopped in his stride and met her hardened gaze with astonishment and dismay.

"He's going to need all your support right now, Kathy. Let's just get him through the recovery before we start talking about retirement. I think that quitting the job will be the last thing on his mind when he wakes up after his surgery."

She jutted her chin out slightly, then nodded her affirmation and the two continued toward their destination.

_~*~Two Weeks Earlier~*~_

The car ride returning from Yonkers back to the precinct went as it usually did after breaking the awful news of Kayla Sanders death to her parents. The quiet was only disturbed by the constant outside noise of the New York streets, the splashes of rain puddles, chorus of car horns. It always took Olivia a good few hours, sometimes longer, to shake off the lingering sadness that she felt for the family of their victim. Even after all the years she still needed a hot bath and a crappy movie on her couch to cram if far enough into the recesses of her brain until it no longer sat at the forefront and tears and grief were all she could see when she closed her eyes.

Elliot internalized all of his anguish, normally behind a façade etched in stone. She knew that he never divulged to Kathy what he dealt with at work, because he didn't want her to carry that horror around with her. How would she be able to look at the world the same if she knew what they heard and saw? He refused to share at home, but he also withdrew at work during the more trying moments.

Unfortunately this meant that he was impossible to talk to sometimes, this being when Olivia truly craved conversation. She was bothered by his poor communication early on in their partnership, envying some of her coworkers for their easy connection and dialogue. But she'd put up with this long enough to become accustomed to his quirks.

It was after 10:00 p.m. and the unit was still active. Even though they often handled cases with disturbing and often heinous factors, there was something about this one that had left the Tribeca community in a nervous frenzy, and One Police Plaza placed its investigation at precedence. Mrs. Morgan had left the precinct an hour prior after contributing her depiction of the strange man. Unfortunately the woman's eyesight was less than stellar, and she'd only caught a glimpse. He'd ended up looking more like Pee Wee Herman once the sketch artist was finished and the coveralls he'd been wearing might have been green, might have been blue, and might have had a company logo on the back. But Mrs. Morgan wasn't sure.

Payroll at Kyle's office was unavailable at the time Fin and Munch attempted to further inspect the kid's alibi, but a conversation with a fellow employee at the firm who'd gone to lunch with him confirmed that Kyle had been with her the entire time.

The fact that Mr. Cornwall had been dining with another female had raised a few eyebrows, but they'd insisted that their friendship had always remained platonic.

At the moment, Elliot and Olivia were sitting with one of the newer computer techies going over the security video that had been retrieved from the apartment building. It was in black and white and was a little grainy, but the faces were easy to make out, although any business logos would likely be difficult to read.

The security camera was positioned at the entrance, and this meant that the trio had spent a long half an hour squinting at the television screen and studying the fuzzy images, expecting something to jump out and become obvious.

They'd had no luck thus far when they'd begun their search at the time stamped at 2:00 in the afternoon, the projected moment of the attack. Not one suspicious guy wearing coveralls had entered the building, and no unfamiliar company vans or vehicles had shown up.

"Go to about 1:30," Elliot said, hands on his hips, eyes refusing to leave the screen. The newbie rewound the footage and clicked on the play button and the detectives resumed their tiresome search, inching closer to the screen—as if doing so would suddenly reveal something they hadn't seen before. Olivia was just forcing back an exhausted yawn when she and Elliot both saw it.

"Wait," she said, holding a hand up. "Pause that." At 1:48 on the video a dark-haired man carrying a large bouquet of flowers had walked right into the entrance, sporting a light-colored coverall get-up. Exactly as the old woman had said. "Go back a few seconds. Let's see if we can get his face."

The tech did as he was told, but slowed the video down so that they were able to view each frame. Elliot and Olivia felt swiftly deflated when the man refused to peer up at the camera, and his entire face was obscured by the bundle of flowers.

"Dammit," Elliot cursed, thumping his fist into the desk. "He's _right there._"

"Look at how many people went in and out of that building, El," Olivia soothed. "Someone other than Mrs. Morgan had to have seen him."

"The captain interviewed the tenants in the building. No one remembers this kid except for the neighbor."

Olivia shrugged. "It doesn't hurt to go back and re-interview everyone." He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "Hey, why don't you call it a day, El?"

He sighed, then sat down on top of his desk. "Captain said no one's going home."

"All right," she said softly, then took a seat at her own desk. The two scoured over their paperwork and photos of the crime scene for several minutes silently until she spoke. "Hey, you want to grab a snack with me? I need to stretch my legs."

Elliot glanced up curiously. "You buying?"

"You wish," she answered, rolling her eyes. "Munch and Fin said something about going to the deli down the street before they left, maybe we can meet up with them and take a breather before we get back to work."

He thumbed through the images of the young woman's blood-splattered possessions, and then let his lips twitch up to a small smile. "I suppose."

This surprised Olivia, since he had been difficult to reach out to the past couple of years, but she was inwardly thrilled. The four of them had not gone out or done anything outside of work in quite a while together. In the past this had been their way of disengaging from the job—to feel normal and human—supporting one another, but somehow this was no longer the case. She noticed that returning from Oregon things had changed, and hanging out after work occurred a lot less often. That was now a bygone era.

She bit back a grin and returned to the statements she was typing up on her computer, oblivious to his observant stare and indulgent answering grin.


End file.
